Nowheretown
by Disable
Summary: Different people, different times; a series of drabbles that might just fall in love with each other.
1. Cupio

Yamanaka Ino liked to think her life was simple and that all the things she experienced were just normal, everyday kind of stuff that happened every day in her gray city. Nothing except the vague barking of two dogs next door, and that of her own dog Apollo; sound can travel for miles but each time her ears twitched in recognition of a sound it seemed far away, like she was.

Grass which was a weirdly enthusiastic shade of green smiled up at her from under her window begging to be froliced and danced in, only after the fatal mistake had been made would the person realize the hundreds of little burrs and nettles down their clothes. Light breezes whipped up the dull scent of Ino's ridiculous garden behind the house and filled her room, possibly the whole house, with the narcotic aroma of flowering plants.

She worked in the garden every day shovelling away dirt to some other plant so all the flowers bloomed equally beautiful. Ino wasn't blessed with a green thumb that allowed her to step foot on any soil and immediately have flowers pop up from the dirt. Her garden held every kind of color one could think of, blending into one another to subtly the eye could only take in the full charm by glancing sideways at it. She had never intended to invent something that pretty, she didn't have a green thumb, sometimes the world makes a little miracle of it's own without the nagging voice God pestering her. There were small bushes of roses everywhere around the garden; Ino's idea for once.

No one knew her enough to know clothes she really would like to wear everyday out in the world. Clothes express someone, her's would say she's grounded in the real world only when she isn't dreaming in her own. People would know that she likes listening but can gush for hours about herself when she's drunk, they say you're honest when you're drunk but Ino is rarely honest. To fight the truth under the influence her mouth just gabs about herself.

But the roses, she wears those on the outside everyday of her life. They expressed Ino's secret obsession which kept her up at night bouncing off the walls in her mind. Her roses spoke of the crazy passion she harbored for love. She wanted to fall in love with someone wonderful who liked the books she read or wanted to watch movies she liked. Of course, she wasn't looking for herself.

Ino was tangled in the three bedsheets she used as a blanket in the summer, head lounging in the semi-darkness under her pillows. Whoever she was going to fall in love with not in the bed, groaning about having to get up.

Her roses would keep her happy until someone moved into her life.

**A / n - **This was on original story, the main character is Baylyn Peters so if Ino's name isn't Ino, that's why.


	2. Conscientia

**A / n - **_the most brilliant characters, _that's where I started the next day, pretty baked. maybe this doesn't make sense but this is Hinata, she's a novelist as there were many back in the day of dramatic speaking. in foresight you should know, Hinata and Ino are not invited to the orgy and I may give them all western culture last names, for the sake of small towns everywhere.

People around town envy the privileged nature of my life, looking down on me because they think I look down on them. It's impossible to go downtown for shopping and gossip, not that I have any friends to gossip with. So I don't go into town I go for carriage rides with my dear cousin.

I think I may not ever be able to repay him for all the times he had helped me in my life. He is one of the few people who are aware of my handicap but that all changed today.

Right now I'm sitting at the desk in my room, hunched over my typewriter furiously mashing the keys down to record every detail of my adventure. You must understand that I am dreadfully excited to have made a friend today, one who may very well evolve into a bosom friend. It is not uncommon for women of the day to have close relationships with one another, like my mother did with my aunt.

I am a novelist, as ludicrous as it is, today has newly energized the thoughts in my mind. Even if the scholars at the university told me that I always have my ideas it's just a matter of finding them. I am unable to search for them.

The most brilliant characters are all thought up in any case, belonging to the much greater men who, in the first place, gave me inspiration. My heart dares beat a little faster with each ding of the typewriter so much reinventing my words that it seems I am not myself, but have gone mad in the pursuit for meaning. Which had never really begun to begin with I say.

Whatever comes from my mad adventure in another person's world I hope at least the story ends in a pleasing way, because not doing so would makes me rather embarrassed. When the blood of my heart gushes onto my cheeks painting them red as Picasso did while suffering from painter's craze. We in the real world called that soft headed. Not to be mistaken with soft hearted as most of _those _people are already in heaven, looking at us through golden telescopes made of clouds.

Don't let me go on about Christianity, that would surely bore you away from my novels without barely a glance to who the author of such a catastrophe was; my mother would always speak about a respectable woman having virtue without the need to work for it, she was a respectable lady you see. Not one thing in the world could rattle her mind into doubting itself, many people say her and I much alike in our virtue.

I would tell you that God was no more than a creation of human minds wishing to be godly themselves, yet I have held little interest in the Bible and have not gone any farther into the study beyond word of mouth. However instead of capturing the feeling of today, I wasted time in recording thoughts I cannot read.

People in this town do not accept my life and do not hesitate to express their innermost feelings on the subject. Without my possibly heroic cousin Neji my life would have few happy memories. When I was told to follow my own path by the scholars at the university I could not lie in my answer, because my mother was virtuous, my exact words were

I do not have a path I am afraid, or at least I am not walking down the correct one. For I think there would candle light perhaps any source of light at all to make the journey less frightening, there are no lights behind or ahead of me; someone must put _me _on the _correct _path in order for my time to be worth anything.

None of the scholars had anything nice to say about my reply, mostly that it was not a progressive way to seek the answers to my questions. That intrigued me to say without meaning, _there is only one thing I would like answer to, and that is.._

Why cannot I see when all the other people in the world can?


End file.
